Morning musings
by Rose de Sharon
Summary: Godfrey of Ibelin's thoughts about his son as they camp out in the forest.


**Title: Morning musings**

Author: Rose de Sharon

Disclaimer: I own nothing. But I do wish I owned Balian!

Author's notes : This story is slightly AU since I've made up a few details. English is not my native language and this story hasn't been beta-readed, so all mistakes are mine.

Summary: Godfrey of Ibelin's thoughts about his son as they camp out in the forest.

Feedback: Yes please. Flames will be kept as fuel: it gets cold here in Canada during the winter!

Archives: FanFiction. net

_**(Godfrey's POW)**_

Dawn is breaking, a light snow is falling, the forest is slowly waking up… and I haven't slept a wink.

During the night, my travelling companions have been able to sleep, gathered round our campfire and bundled up in blankets to fight off the bitter cold of late winter. Sleeping in the open isn't comfortable, but during our long journey they never once complained about the accommodations: Brother Michael, the blond Hospitaler whose difficult mission in life is to save my battered soul. Odo, a German knight who have been my friend for more than 15 years. Djamel, a dark-skinned warrior from Syria who I saved from an unfair condemnation and who attached himself to me since. Robert, my faithful esquire. Six armed guards. I still can't believe they all accepted to travel across the Mediterranean Sea, Italy and France, out of friendship for me.

Because, truth to be told, I am a battle-weary, soul-damaged, getting-old knight who left his wealthy possessions in the Holy Land to retrieve someone in rural France.

My son.

When I told them about the illegitimate son I left in France, my companions were all stunned. It is well-know in Jerusalem that since I suffered from a battle injury 20 years ago (an arrowhead in my testicle), I have been able to satisfy women but not to father children. This matter has been the subject of endless slanders and ridicule from my enemies, especially Guy de Lusignan, King Baldwin IV brother-in-law who is jealous of my reputation, or that brute Reynald de Chatillon who lives to kill and rape, and the Templars as well. Lusignan and Chatillon have used my condition to try to diminish the achievements I've made in thirty years of knighthood, while the Templars are looking forward to my demise to gain my lands and possessions, all in the name of God of course.

I could have married a widow from Jerusalem and adopted her children, but deep in my heart I knew that as soon as I'd die my testament would be ripen into pieces. I have King Baldwin's love and confidence, but he will soon join me in the afterlife and his sole heir, Guy de Lusignan, is my sworn enemy. Besides, my conscience didn't left me in peace since my son was born.

Balian.

When I met Balian's mother, I was a carefree 20 years old knight who lived only for wine, women and tournaments. My friends and I were staying at her village's tavern for the night and I saw her exiting the small church. My god… she was beautiful. A peasant woman with an aristocratic air, a face like an angel's above tattered clothes, black hair, dark eyes looked straight into my soul. I remember stammering like an idiot when I asked the innkeeper for her name, and he told me she was Beatrice, a washerwoman. I left my mocking and laughing friends behind and I ran after the woman who already owned my heart.

Despite her objections, as she already knew we didn't have a future together, we had one week of blissful happiness. During the nights she would tell me about her deceased mother, her unknown father whom the villagers suspected was a noble. Her sole protector was the elderly village's priest since her birth gave her no other choice than wash the villagers' laundry for a few coins a day, even less in winter. I told her about my ailing noble family, which barony has been lost over the years to debts, and my hope to join the crusades to gain fortune and fame in the laughable goal to restore my family's name.

Then, my suzerain called me to his manor in Rochelambert and I left her: he was getting ready to leave for the Holy Land and I had to follow. The preparations took months, yet I managed to escape for a few days before our departure to say my farewells to Beatrice. When I finally reached her, the baby was due. I instantly knew the child was mine and I was torn between happiness at the idea of being a father and despair with my upcoming departure.

Balian is currently sleeping, clutching a blanket to his chest, his head resting against a saddle and his back turned on the campfire. He looks so peaceful, laying here and lost in dreams, I remember him as a newborn sleeping in his mother's lap, twenty-five years ago.

I witnessed the birth of my son, can you believe it? No midwife in the village were eager to help a bastard woman delivering her bastard child, they were too concerned for their souls! I would have slain those rats on the spot, but Beatrice had begged me to not use violence. Thank God, the deliverance was uneventful and I helped my son to come out of his mother's womb: I've supported his tiny head in the palm of my hand!

My Balian!

I named him after my dear father, and gave his mother all the money I've had. It ripped my heart into shreds to leave them, but Beatrice understood the oath I've sworn to my suzerain, even if sailing for the Holy Land to defend the Christ's sepulchre was a bit beyond her comprehension. The elderly priest christened Balian the day after his birth and swore he would look after Beatrice and our son. I left at dawn, broken-hearted yet full of hope for a better future together.

But life, war and the Holy Land have prevented me to honour my promise. During my first years in Jerusalem, I've received three tattered and torn letters from the elderly priest through his church order, telling me about Beatrice and Balian. In the last one, the priest told me how Beatrice had married the village's blacksmith to gain a "situation". I've never got another letter again. I've been in more battles I can count for, I suffered injuries, captures, fights, politics, diseases, all this for a king's recognition and the barony of Ibelin, which includes a thousand acres of desert land.

Yet, in my heart, I've never stopped thinking about my son and his mother.

My travelling companions have arisen, and they are busying themselves with their morning routine: Brother Michael is praying, Djamel is handing me out a cup of tea, Odo is braiding his blond mane and Robert is checking on the horses. Balian is still asleep, worn out by the recent events. Not that I blame him: a widowed blacksmith finding himself a noble father, accidentally killing the worm-like priest who desecrated his wife's corpse, having his forge torched down and riding for two days out of fear of justice, all this would take its toll on any ordinary man.

I am a rich, old and weary knight at the end of his rope. In Jerusalem I am feared by my enemies, respected by Muslim and Jews leaders, trusted by King Baldwin IV and loved by my servants. Yet I'm aware of the threats and the scorn of Lusignan and Chatillon, circling above my head like vultures. An old knight without heirs is an easy prey for those money-greedy murderers, you see?

When I decided to leave Jerusalem to find Balian, my trusted friends thought I had gone crazy: who would search for a long-lost bastard in impoverished France? By no doubt my child would have died years ago of hunger, disease or serfdom. Half of the population of Jerusalem presumed I wanted to die in my ancestors' land, the other half thought I had gave up my Ibelin barony to Lusignan. Yet I left instructions to my knights in case Balian would reach Jerusalem as I damn well knew this journey would be my last.

And now I'm watching my son sleeping, just like I did twenty-five years ago. Brother Michael is watching me from the corner of his eye but I refuse to be distracted.

He is beautiful, both inside and out. He has his mother's dark hair and angelic face, yet his eyes are brown just like I remember my father's. His height is nearly mine, but he's leaner and he has this proud and aristocratic air, which by no doubts have brought him trouble with his fellow villagers. And by God, I do recognise his chin and nose, the shape of his face, his strong hands and fair skin: all mine! Balian took from both sides of his mother and father, an angel and a warrior. I wonder why the Heavens gave me such a strong, magnificent son: it certainly wasn't because of the good deeds I've done in my life!

But his soul makes him even more beautiful: when he caught up to me on the road, riding a stolen horse and holding his wounded right hand, I first thought he wanted to kill me for abandoning him in the past. But he was only interested about saving his late wife's soul and his own, both of them victims of that wrenched priest, and Jerusalem was his light in the darkness. For more than a century now, the population of Europe has been told time and time again that the Holy Land was a place of assured redemption and Balian would do anything to save his wife from Hell. He didn't asked me once where Ibelin was, how big was my house and how many servants I've had: his mind is only focused on Jerusalem and I hope, when his conscience will be at peace, that he will take an interest in my lands.

It's too soon for that now: Balian is fleeing justice for killing that odious priest, no doubt he'd be tortured and hanged for that crime. I'll be everlastingly damned if I'd give anyone that satisfaction! My companions have said nothing but I know they will defend Balian 'till their last breath. We're all murderers, you see? And we all seek redemption. Irony is, it's the most innocent one of our group who seeks forgiveness the most.

I have little time ahead of me, and if I want Balian to survive the difficult journey towards Jerusalem and the troubles that lay there, I have to teach him everything I know about knighthood: weapon training, endurance, horse-riding. As for honesty and conscience, he will teach me since he already know what took me my whole life to learn.

I toss the remnants of the tea on the ground, shake off my snow-covered blanket, and grab a sword. As much as I hate it, I have to wake Balian to start his training. Michael will certainly object to it, since Balian has a wounded hand, but we cannot delay.

I drop the sword on the ground nearby him. The metallic clank wakes him instantly.

Let's start our education, my son.


End file.
